Motes rise and fall in the antique beams of the setting sun. James is struck by the notion that they do this daily whether he’s in the attic to witness or not. He swipes his hand through the gentle ballet to aggravate the dancers. Before the swirls and eddies subside he’s disinterested again.

Upon returning to his mother’s home following her funeral his first inclination was to clean. The dishes are five days dry–they can wait. The sink trash has a fresh bag and a single Windex stained paper towel at the bottom. He pulls the table back from the wall where it was pushed; he straightens the chairs a bit. He is not surprised there is nothing to do in this room-mom’s office they called it.

Into the family dinning room the twenty years ignored record player attracts his attention. In fact, once he’s noticed it, it’s like an orange in a bowl of apples or a butterfly on snow. James kneels in front of the standup shelf that’s vaguely listing toward the east wall. He pulls away the plastic cover and pokes the On button; nothing happens. Of course the thing is unplugged; he toggles the player off, plugs it in, and turns it back to on.

A dim orange light surrounds the On button. A soft static crackles to life in the speakers.

Ok, gotta go. The plan here in case you didn’t see where I was going was to find an LP in the attic to play. He’d discover a letter of some sort in the album sleeve. Traditionally thats where I would leave it hanging and never know where or how to pick up from there.